


A Study in Sexual Tension (or, Road Trips are Always a Good Idea)

by cellardoor



Category: Young Avengers
Genre: F/M, clint is wise and sagely (almost), omg underage drinking, road trip cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellardoor/pseuds/cellardoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kate’s thighs are pretty great and Clint is always right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Sexual Tension (or, Road Trips are Always a Good Idea)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been nursing this for ever and ever. Completely unbeta'd, as they are apparently a rare and precious species and I am kind of shy when it comes to finding one. 
> 
> Anyway, this is set post Children's Crusade, pre Volume 2. Tommy is no longer living with the Kaplans and Kate is dynamic duo-ing it up with Clint. 
> 
> As far as trigger warnings go, there is a super vague reference to Kate's assault later on.

She's shooting the shit with Clint when her phone rings. They're chatting and throwing casual abuse at each other, but they're also, quite literally, _shooting the shit_ Clint has delicately balanced in their makeshift shooting range. It's a winning combination, and not one she's usually willing to drop for a mere phone call. That’s what voicemail is for. But -

She glances at the screen, pauses with her bow taut. Tommy _never_ calls. He shows up uninvited, unexpected, out of breath and grinning. Long distance isn't really his style.

Well, he has her attention, somewhat to her annoyance.

She doesn’t even manage a ‘hello’.

"Guess what?" He sounds the kind of excited Kate suspects she can't keep up with.

"What?" She says, carefully affecting the deadpan weariness she reserves just for him.

"I passed." He pauses, and she can imagine the stupid grin on his face with alarming clarity. "I am now officially road legal."

"Road legal - _what?_ " Kate shifts the phone to her other ear, resigns herself to putting the bow down. "What do _you_ want with a driving license?"

"Uh, to drive with?"

"But why?"

"Why not?" He says breezily. There must a point in this conversation somewhere, so Kate waits, tapping her finger against her cell and letting her pointed silence speak for itself. It’s pretty easy to outlast someone who finds every second an unbearable eternity.

"So, er… road trip?" He has the audacity to not even bother sounding _hopeful_ , just frustratingly certain.

" _Tommy_ -"

"Oh, come on, it's like an American rite of passage, you can't say no-"

"I can, and I am - listen to it: _no_. Tommy, I've got school-"

"Doesn't that happen, like, every day? Because an awesome road trip with your favourite superhero is once in a lifetime."

Kate sighs at length. "Look, Tommy-"

"Do I have to play the 'I spent my formative years in juvie' card? Because I will." He pauses. It’s a mischievous silence. "So, remember that time when I was locked up and experimented on for years and years and never got a childhood?"

"Hey, remember that time when _I rescued you_?"

"We can go to Alaska!"

She bites back a laugh.  "You do know that's four thousand miles away, right?"

"Sure? I mean, no biggie?" He sounds genuinely clueless. It's kind of sweet. "It's not that far."

"That would take, like, eighty hours, Tommy."

"No it won't, it would - wait-" She hears a rustle down the line, then a drawn out sigh. "Ok, so I didn't realise that cars _sucked_."

"Like I said, what do you want with a driving license?"

"But," Tommy protests, "it has a _tape player_."

Kate laughs at that, properly laughs, which is when it hits her that she's an idiot, Tommy's an idiot, and she was never not going on this ridiculous road trip.

"I'm driving," she says, because she has to retain some sense of control. He can’t just - just - well, whatever it is he’s doing.

Tommy makes an uncertain noise down the phone. "But-"

"Not a chance, Shepherd. Do you want my company, or not?"

Evidently, he does.

 

 

***

 

 

Outside, Tommy is obnoxiously sounding his horn.

"So what, you're just going for a drive?" Clint says slowly, like he can't quite work it out. "As friends?"

"Yes."

"You, Kate Bishop, are taking off without prior arrangement, to go on a road trip?"

" _Yes_. What's so inherently difficult to understand here?" Kate looks up from her hastily packed bag to fix him with an icy glare.

"But," Clint says, completely bewildered, "You haven't got any stuff."

"I can get stuff if I need it." She closes the case of her collapsible bow and gives it a fond pat. "Got the important stuff."

"Katie, I -" Clint blinks at her for a moment, before breaking off into a shrug. "You know what, nevermind." His mouth twists up at the corners.

"No, say it." She slings her bag over her shoulder.

"Ignore me, it's just-"

" _Say it._ " She demands, and Clint unsuccessfully stifles a grin.

"Are you _sure_ it's not a sex thing?"

"It's not a sex thing, Clint. It doesn't always have to be a sex thing."

"Oh, _ha ha_. I'm wounded."

She strides past him and opens the front door. Tommy is leaning against his car, looking so _Tommy_ and infuriating and brilliant that she just starts smiling. She hasn't seen him in months, God only knows where he's been. He needs a haircut, some new jeans, and also, she decides, a hug. She throws one arm around him briefly and his hand goes to the small of her back without the slightest hesitation, just the slightest bit too far down. Clint's eyebrows are liable to actually take off they're raised so far.

She makes a point of not giving a shit about cars, because giving a shit about cars is something rich people do, and she's just a person who happens to have money. Tommy's car is black and scuffed, and probably a piece of crap, by the way Clint is looking at it. _Good._ She grabs the keys from Tommy's hands and makes herself at home in the driver's seat.

"Get in, Shepherd. We haven't got all day."

Tommy scoots round the car dutifully as she winds the window down. Clint mouths ' _sex thing_ ' at her, which she ignores. And flips him off.

"Have fun, Katie," Clint says, his grin five shades too shit-eating for her liking. She scrabbles around in Tommy's glove compartment for a suitably hard projectile to chuck at his head, with frightening accurately of the Hawkeye brand. A packet of gum serves admirably.

They pull away to the sound of Clint cursing as it hits him right between the eyes, Kate smiling smugly. Tommy, however, is strangely stiff. Just a little, but it doesn't slip her notice. She assumes it's their easy banter, Clint's playful suggestion. It takes a few minutes and a busy interchange for her to contemplate the timing and work out it was the casual 'Katie' in Clint's goodbye. Who would've thought; Thomas Shepherd hung up on semantics?

 _Boys_.

She leans across, never taking her eyes off the road, and punches him in the arm.

"What was that for?" He demands, indignant.

She thinks about telling him that it's ok if he wants to call her Katie, but decides against it. He can just work it out for himself.

"Just setting a precedent," she says cheerfully. Tommy half laughs, half snorts, settling back down in his seat and producing a map.

"Where to, your worship?"

She grins. She's happy to be here.

It's _not_ a sex thing.

 

 

***

 

 

He talks a mile a minute, not half as gracefully as he runs, and she’s happy just to listen. First, because she has no idea where he’s been or what he’s done, and Tommy either tells you that or he doesn’t. Second, because she missed him, and third, because she doesn’t know anyone else he would talk to quite like this. So, she shuts up. It’s nothing of much substance, but she’ll take all the tantalising glimpses into his life she can get.

The fluffy dinosaurs hanging from his rear view mirror are from Molly, which is the most sentimental thing she can remember him ever doing. There’s a textbook on his back seat that can only be Billy’s, and she realises with a shock that she probably wasn’t the first person he called.

When did they all become such strangers to her?

The first afternoon of their trip is short, and it’s getting dark when she finally has to stifle a yawn. Tommy has a route planned - surprisingly spot on given his completely fucked speedster sense of distance and time - and they pull into the carpark of a motel before long. It has an ugly, neon sign and Tommy is practically foaming at the mouth with delight.

“You do know I’m loaded, right?” She reminds him, but he drags her in gleefully to the reception desk.

He says "double" even as she says "twin", and then shoots her a look like _hey, worth a shot._ She's all set to be mad at him, but then he gives his name to the receptionist and it turns out he phoned ahead and booked a twin already. As always, he’s all talk.

They eat pop tarts and bicker and she raids his suitcase amidst his feeble protestations.

“Hey, that’s my t-shirt!”

“Yeah, and now I’m wearing it. I need pajamas.” Kate snatches the popcorn from him.

“Are they - my _boxers_!” He yelps, and she grins and munches as he mutters to himself. “You wait ‘til I start wearing your stuff.”

“Sweetie, I would pay good money to see that.”

He falls asleep halfway through their second pay-per-view, somewhat unceremoniously. He looks younger when he’s asleep, drooling peacefully, the same face she busted out of juvie two years ago. Happier, though. Playing his cards only slightly less close to his chest.

She debates drawing on his face in the true spirit of the all-American road trip, but settles for kissing his forehead ever so softly. There’s a nearly-healed cut beneath his overgrown bangs and she has no idea where it came from. She feels bad for missing so much.

“Felt that,” he murmurs.

“Go to sleep,” she says, and curls up next to him, because after two years of pushing him away, two metres feels like too far to be apart.

 

 

***

 

 

She lets him drive, and they stop for lunch to find one of their rear tyres in a sorry state.

“Awesome," Tommy enthuses, "I was hoping this would happen."

"Excuse me?”

"It's not a proper road trip without a flat tyre!"

He inspects the tyre with a ridiculous amount of glee.

"I'll have to change it," he announces, giving Kate a sideways look. "It'll be sweaty and manly."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Kate makes a show of inspecting her nails, a picture of (unconvincing) indifference.

"I might have to take my shirt off."

He's baiting her, of course, so she raises an eyebrow, looking at him over the top of her sunglasses.

"Well," she says evenly, "I wouldn't want you to overheat."

As it turns out, Tommy hasn't the foggiest how to change a wheel. He swears a lot and wrestles with a vast array of bewildering tools, making very little headway. Kate stretches out on the hood of the car, jeans rolled up. Let him wrestle with his bizarre sense of masculine pride, she's going to enjoy the weather. And the view, actually, but that's between her and her reflective lenses.

He's totally engrossed, and it's disarmingly adorable. He's putting time and effort into something so utterly superfluous to him, and it makes zero sense. Thomas Shepherd and a car? Bizarre.

He doesn't take his top off, just rolls his sleeves up and wipes his shining forehead with the back of his hand. He leaves a dirty smear on his cheek. He's less uber-masculine mechanic and more child caught finger painting when he looks up at her with elation as the wheel _finally_ comes loose.

She laughs, shifts to a cooler patch.

Tommy throws something cold and hard at her. She turns it over in her hands.

"Road trip cliché number two," He announces, "Beer on the hood." He reclines next to her, popping the tab of his beer whilst propping himself up on an elbow. Kate turns her head, watches him take a sip. He's all angles and sharp curves, his shirt sticking to him.

"Stop objectifying me," he grins, and she smirks.

"Can you blame me? I'm just so wowed by your manly prowess."

"Shut up. I got the tyre off, didn't I?"

"The thing about cars, though, Tommy, is that typically they need all four wheels to run."

He grimaces and takes another swig.

"I hate cars."

"Says Mr. Road Trip." Kate snaps the tab on her own beer. "Should you even be drinking, O Designated One?"

"Are you worried it'll bring my reaction time down to massively above average, as opposed to godlike?" There's no particular smugness to his voice. She likes that about him.

"Can you even get drunk?" Kate wonders, pressing the can to her cheek. “Or is that a metabolism thing with you?” God, it’s hot. Black was a stupid-ass car color decision. It's really _hot_.

"Mmmm," Tommy hedges, and she should've guessed he'd duck out of that one. She's seen him drunk, or at least, she thinks she has. He was much the same as he is sober.

"Well, I can," she says, and downs her beer with a sudden bravado.

Tommy laughs, reclining further, hands behind his head. She wriggles closer, uses his upper arm as a pillow. He goes very still, and they lie in silence for a bit. She grins up at the sky, because she knows how much he must be dying to move. He’s all but thrumming beneath her.

"I thought this would be normal," Tommy says finally, with an air of confession.

"Normal? Since when did you want normal?" Kate snorts.

"I don't, but," Tommy shrugs. “Look, it's just - I reckon Billy could literally destroy the world, if he had a bad enough day.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t, then.” She says dryly.

Tommy ignores that. “Doesn’t that freak you out, even a little bit?” He turns his head to scrutinise her. “Don't get me wrong, Kate, I am not implying you are anything other than fucking amazing at everything, but don't you ever feel like you're running with the big guns?”

 _Yes,_ she thinks. _No_. _Maybe_ _that’s how I like it_.

"I don't need normal, Tommy."

"Of course you don't," he says, and looks away from her. It’s not quite shyness, but it’s definitely a distant relative. A third cousin, perhaps. "But I thought you might _like_ it."

For that, she has to kiss him. His lips are cool and damp from the beer, and the last thing she should be thinking about. So, in the name of giving Clint the long-distance finger, she aims ever so chastely for his cheek.

“That’s sweet.”

Tommy raises a petulant eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”

Kate smacks him. “We were having a moment, Shepherd.”

“Yeah, until you ruined it. My mouth’s right here-”

She smacks him again, but she’s smiling at him kind of fondly, which probably spoils the effect somewhat.

“Let’s get this show back on the road.” She gestures at the forlorn looking tyre. “Hop to it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

 

***

 

 

They stop in the middle of nowhere for spontaneous bow practice, and for Tommy to pee. She shoots an arrow right into the dirt by his feet and he grouses at her for the next five hours for making him pee on his shoes.

 They hit the interstate 40 and high five.

 

 

***

 

 

They race to the shower the moment they reach the motel, and Tommy wins, of course. To be fair, he’s much dirtier, covered in oil, so she concedes somewhat gracefully. She curls up on her bed, eyes half shut, and dozes to the sound of splashing and running water.

He emerges finally with a fluffy, white towel wrapped round his waist, low enough that she can see his hip bones. The towel matches his hair, and he’s all muscles and sinew and endless pale skin. She keeps her eyes half closed, and he potters about looking for socks. He has no idea she’s watching, and he’s not trying to be beautiful, which is probably why he is, and why she wants to yank his towel away.

But rather than lie there like a creeper forever, she grabs her own towels and makes for the bathroom. Because this _isn’t_ a sex thing.

She hates Clint right now.

They pick more terrible movies, and eat more terrible food as they huddle on his single, and Tommy’s hair is still damp from the shower as it tickles her shoulder. She runs out of things to say that aren’t a bit much, so instead, she tugs at his overlong bangs.

“You need a haircut.”

“Ok,” he says.

“Seriously?”

Tommy shrugs. “Hey, I thought we were going for the indie film ‘self discovery’ road trip thing. It’s on tone. Very DIY.”

Kate’s never cut anyone’s hair before, but how hard can it be, really?

He sits on the floor with his head between her knees, and she hacks away with a pair of scissors they borrowed from reception. She does ok, considering. He scrabbles to his feet to check it in the mirror.

“Oh my _god_ , you asshole,” he splutters, “you gave me a Billy.”

She laughs herself stupid until he throws a pillow at her, and then she still laughs herself stupid, except quieter. It’s weird, that although she knows they’re identical in all but coloring, she can’t for the life of her see the Billy in Tommy, or the Tommy in Billy.

She fusses over a few finishing touches to Tommy’s hair, mostly just to touch his face and fuss over him, because she’s not sure how else to show affection in a way he’ll accept. She wonders what it’s like, to fall into the life of someone you’re identical to. Especially Billy. He’s not even her brother, and she already has to wrestle with jealousy and resentment. Not to mention the overwhelming urge to smack him upside the head in a gesture of love but also “you stupid fucking idiot.” She can’t imagine being Tommy, and that twists at her insides a little.

So, she kisses Tommy on the nose, and he throws her a look like, _are you shitting me_. Fair enough. She’s practically straddling him wearing only his shirt and her underwear, running her fingers through his hair. It’s a bit ridiculous. She just wanted to, that’s all. He’s letting her into his life and she’s touched and flattered, and she doesn’t quite know how to show it. Also, his nose is cute.

“Sorry,” she says, and shifts off him, retreating to her own bed.

He clears his throat awkwardly. “No problem.”

They sleep in their own beds. It’s probably for the best.

 

***

 

They see a sign for a maize maze, and go fifty miles out of their way to see it. (“It’s a maze,” Tommy says reverently, “made of _maize_.”) The weather’s beautiful, and Kate hacks off the legs of her four hundred dollar jeans. Possibly a bit too short, but Tommy doesn't say anything. He does raise his eyebrows, though, but it could be that he recognised the label and is shocked at her flagrant disregard for expensive design.

On second thoughts, it was probably was just her thighs. They’re pretty great.

The maize maze is underwhelming, and she has to hold Tommy’s wrist the entire way to stop him speeding off. He’s been so patient, travelling the civilian way, but this, apparently, is just too much.

“You have no idea how much you are killing this for me,” he mutters darkly. “Three seconds, that’s all I need, and I can tell you which way-”

“That’s cheating,” she hisses, scandalised. He gives in. She suspects he just likes walking behind her. She’d call him out on being a mega-creeper, but as the pot in this situation, she decides to cut the kettle some slack.

Half an hour later, and they’re finally at what seems to be the middle, aka a small gravel patch much the same as any other gravel patch they’re passed. _What an anticlimax_ , she thinks, as they shoot each other the exact same deadpan look. It’s totally deserted. Eerily quiet but for the gentle crunch of the gravel beneath their sneakers and the soft sound the corn makes in the barely-there wind.

_Well._

She turns to him, a mischievous grin growing on her face.

“So, bridal style or piggy back?”

She barely registers Tommy’s smile before he whips her up (bridal style, _of course_ ) and dashes off. He has to be holding back, he’s got her all too human limitations to think of. Even so, she can barely catch her breath, barely take in the corners they’re turning.

This is him holding back, and he’s taking a road trip with her. _What?_

They come to an abrupt halt by the car. He puts her down but she leaves her arms around his neck, leans against the car and pulls him against her. He braces himself with an arm either side, looking at her with a mixture of surprised curiosity and - well, something else that she’s growing increasingly interested in. She can feel his breath on her face.

“Ms. Bishop.”

“Mr. Shepherd.”

On an impulse, she leans forward and bites the lobe of his right ear, gently but firmly. Tommy makes a sort of strangled noise, and it is her new favourite sound ever. She laughs, and he looks at her with the most incredibly wounded puppy eyes. She’s not buying it for a second.

It occurs to her, then, that she should probably stop feeling guilty about this whole thing and just have fun. What’s there to feel guilty about, anyway? Her _reputation_? Clint being _right_? She can almost hear him sniggering at that one. Tommy? Because he sure looks like he’s having fun. Why can’t she? Besides, _he_ called _her._

“My turn to drive,” she says, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for the keys. She pulls them out slowly, completely obscenely, before slipping under his arms and round to the driver’s side, his eyes following her intently. She wishes she’d cut her shorts shorter.

Just because.

 

 

***

 

 

They pull over in the middle of nowhere to eat sandwiches and tortilla chips, stretched out languidly across the car hood. Kate can hear cicadas, and feel the faintest hint of a breeze. It’s peaceful and perfect.

So, of course, Tommy goes to puts Whitesnake on. She grabs his wrist as he sidles towards the open window.

“Look,” he whines, squirming in her grasp like a boy who can’t vibrate through solid walls, “I’m just facilitating any need you may or may not have to dance on my hood.”

“May _not,_ ” Kate says firmly, then smirks. “I’d need a more attractive stage, for a start.”

“Hey!” Tommy protests, “Lay off my babe magnet.”

“Your babe magnet.” Kate deadpans. “This piece of junk -”

“Admittedly, it’s more of a theory at this stage,” Tommy says, shooting her a sideways glance. “But there’s a position open, just in case you were wondering.”

“For what? Resident magnetized babe?”

“Something like that.” His eyes never leave hers. “If you’re interested.”

“Well,” she says, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

She kisses him for all the times she should have but didn’t. This time, on the mouth.

Tommy apparently doesn't hold hands or do feelings, but he kisses like he does. He doesn’t do much more than let her lean over and kiss him, his hands resting on her hips, thumb stroking the skin between her shirt and shorts ever so slightly, testing the waters. The waters are _fine_ , the waters are _very much ok_ with these developments, and she says it by way of biting his bottom lip in frustration. It does the trick, and his breath catches. Maybe she has a new favourite noise. Maybe she should aim for a whole playlist.

Then it’s him leaning over her, pressing her against the warm metal, with one arm propping him up, his other hand tracing gentle circles on her waist. Kate tangles her fingers in his hair, digs her nails into his shoulders. She smiles into his mouth, because _of course_ this is happening now, here - _of course_ it has to be like this. She can feel Tommy pulling away, like he’s trying to say something - but she can’t have that, grabbing his neck and kissing him even more insistently, shifting indecently beneath him.

“You-” he manages, “but, we - uh?”

“Shut up.”

He does, kissing a trail from behind her ear to the base of her neck. Kate makes a noise she thinks she should probably be embarrassed by, but she’s hazy on the why. He pushes her shirt up, kisses down the left side of her ribs, down her stomach to her hips. Fumbles slightly with the buttons on her shorts, the only sign that he might be nervous. His face betrays nothing of the sort, so she can’t be sure. She never can be, with him. He could just be shit at buttons. He kisses her just under the waistband, hooks his fingers around her shorts and gently tugs.

“Here?” She says, slightly breathless, trying to sound amused and incredulous rather than pathetically eager. The somewhat public spectacle they are about to make aside. A non-issue, surely, when one of you is a speedster? Besides, it’s deserted, and double besides, this _asshole_ is breathing on the inside of her thigh and has prettier eyelashes than anyone has any right to have.

“Here.” Tommy says, firmly.

Ok, so he moves fast. He always has. She’s just going to keep up.

He tugs her shorts and underwear down and over her feet, and she clamps down on a skittish giggle. She’s half naked on a car in broad daylight, and there’s only one person in the entire world that could have gotten her into this situation, and he’s settling between her thighs, kissing up the insides to where they meet.

And, well - this is unexpected, to say the least. She’s kind of out of her comfort zone, if she’s entirely honest with herself. She’d expected him to crawl back up and have vaguely awkward, needy missionary-esque something or other. Not to misalign him, but that’s just how it seems to go. He looks to have no intention of moving upwards, though, and while this is better, she’s feeling a little bit self conscious. At least that way she’d know what to with her hands.

Maybe her nerves are showing, because Tommy presses a curious kiss to her hip bone.

“You ok?”

She takes a shaky breath. “I feel stupid.” She feels stupider having said it. “Bit, um. Exposed.”

“Well, don’t.” Tommy shoots her a grin. “ _Quite_ a view from down here.”

She loves him a little bit for that.

He looks so comfortable in his skin she’s one part jealous, one part absolutely furious he gets to keep his clothes on. She tries to say something to that effect, but he ducks back down and short circuits all the thinking bits in her brain with his mouth. She takes back everything bad she’s ever said about him and sort of forgets that anything else matters. That’s crazy, actually, given she’s usually thinking of like, five things at any given moment. A glowing recommendation in itself, that.

Tommy does crawl back up, eventually, when Kate has bitten her lip and shuddered around his fingers. He flops on the hood beside her.

“I’m feeling quite smug right now,” he says, and she laughs breathlessly.

“Yeah?”

“Hawkeye’s lying on my car naked,” he says, leaning closer. “I’m feeling pretty fucking smug.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Ok, well, this _particular_ Hawkeye. Barton not so much.“ Tommy kisses her gently, and she can taste herself. She feels like she should be embarrassed, but it’s also pretty much the hottest thing ever. She can’t find the energy to be mortified. Embarrassment, she decides, is for lesser mortals.

“P.S.,” Tommy adds, “You make the best noises.”

She doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so she shifts closer. “Half-naked.”

“What?”

“I’m only half naked, and -” she tugs at his shirt, “- besides, we’re not done here.”

“We're not?” Tommy looks at her quizzically. She almost laughs. Tommy Shepherd - gentleman in the sack. (On the car? _Whatever_.) The point is that he’s a sweetheart and he does a terrible job at hiding it. She feels dizzy and want to laugh, because she’s figured it out and - for now - he’s letting her.

Kate pulls at his shirt again, and he obligingly lifts his arms up. She pulls it over his head, discarding it carelessly in favour of pressing kisses to his shoulders.

“Um, are we, like -” He draws in a sharp breath as she starts unzipping his jeans. “Ok, al fresco lovin’. Awesome.”

“Actually, let’s take this to the back seat.” Kate says, wincing. “My butt is on fire.”

“The dangers of sex on hot metal objects,” Tommy says, lifting her up. “The back seat, though, now _that’s_ a classic - ”

She kisses him because she doesn’t want to hear about his mental road trip checklist - she doesn’t want to hear anything that isn’t him taking his clothes off - and they tumble into the car in a clumsy pile, Tommy tripping over the jeans around his ankles. Kate ends up on her back, Tommy leaning above her and kicking off his jeans and swearing. It’s completely ridiculous yet somehow organic, and she snorts in amusement.

She pulls her own shirt off and drags him down to press skin on skin. He kisses her neck, fingers skating up her stomach to trace the curve of her breast. He lets out an incredibly undignified (excellent) noise as she digs her nails into his back, wrapping her legs around his waist.

“Will you yell at me if I said there are condoms down the side of the door?” He says in a rush, looking sheepish. “I swear, there were there already, I didn’t plan on this-”

“Shut up,” Kate presses a kiss to his nose. “You big Boy Scout.”

She wonders why they _are_ there. It’s not a question with a huge range of possible answers. The thought of Tommy with someone else doesn’t exactly upset her, it just frustrates her. She could’ve been there, it could’ve been _her_ , and it wasn’t. Mostly, though, she just feels aggressively competitive.

“Well, ok, maybe I _hoped_.” Tommy murmurs against her throat, “Can you blame me?”

She hooks her fingers in the waistband of his boxers, and pulls down them slowly. Tommy sucks in his breath, Kate gently biting his collar bone. She watches the play of muscles across his chest as he shivers. She wants to make him do it again. (The best part is knowing that she _can_.)

Kate pushes Tommy on his back and climbs on top of him purposefully.

“Nngh - ok, in the name of full disclosure, I have had this dream like, five times-”

She shuts him up by sinking down on him abruptly.

“This’ll be better,” she tells him. “Now _shut up_.”

 

 

***

 

 

Things change, things don’t change.

They arrive at a motel much later than usual, and stumble into bed. Kate still asks for a twin, because she likes being pressed against him in a single, limbs entangled. She goes to sleep with one arm draped over him, her head on his chest. He strokes her upper arm with his thumb languidly until he starts to drift off, his breathing even and comforting.

“Night, Katie,” he murmurs.

She grins into the dark.

 

 

***

 

 

Clint calls in the morning, way too early. She extricates herself from Tommy, slapping about the dresser fruitlessly for her cell. She finally grabs it and hauls herself to a sitting position.

“What the hell are you doing up?” She snaps down the phone, as Tommy groans and rolls out the bed.

“What the hell are _you_ doing in bed?”

“It’s called a healthy sleeping pattern, Barton. Normal people have them, you should try it.”

“Sure.” Clint says, irritatingly smug. “ _Sleeping_.”

 “Clint,” Kate says, rubbing her forehead. Tommy’s face has gone worryingly impassive.“Could we not-”

“Right, right, sorry,” Clint babbles. “It’s just - would you believe that I’m actually getting bored without you?”

“Easily.”

“So, do you have an ETA?” He pauses. “Or am I flying solo for the foreseeable future?”

“I don’t know.” Kate shoots a wary look at Tommy. “A couple of days?”

Tommy shrugs and shuffles to the bathroom. Damnit.

“Well, don’t let me keep you, Katie,” Clint is saying, “Don’t let a lonely old guy get in the way of your magical sex adventures.”

“ _Barton,_ ” She hisses, but he just chuckles and hangs up on her, leaving her alone with her phone and a pillow with two empty indents.

Tommy emerges after a few minutes, this weird, wry grin on his face. It doesn’t look quite right.

“Hungry?”

She smiles and nods, but her insides sink.

 

 

***

 

 

Turns out the ‘enormous breakfast in a roadside diner’ experience is another one Tommy is keen to tick off. He orders pancakes, which he then proceeds to drown gleefully in maple syrup.

 Maybe she imagined it. Maybe he’s fine.

“You want some pancakes with your syrup?” Kate quips.

“It’s all good, I’ll work it off.” Tommy says, shooting her a somewhat lewd grin.

She smiles, a little wearily. It’s her least favourite of his façades.

“We should start heading back,” Tommy continues, through a mouthful of pancake. “Let you get back to your life.”

“I’m in no hurry.” Kate moves the waffles around her plate listlessly. “Don’t rush on my account.”

“Nah, you kinda are.” Tommy doesn’t look up from his breakfast. “It’s fine, it’s fine - I get it. Besides, I’m meeting Billy for some brotherly bonding or whatever. It works out.”

He looks up then, this lop-sided, self-deprecating smile on his face that completely throws her, because she’s seen it so many times - just never on _this_ twin.  

“Billy,” Kate repeats, so thrown by the smile she has to search frantically for words.. “Um. How is he, anyway?”

“Oh, the usual.” Tommy snorts. “Stupid hair, surgically attached boyfriend, yada yada.”

She grins, because like he’s fooling _anyone_ at this stage. Shuffles a little closer to him in the booth and pinches his thigh, and he yelps through a mouthful of pancake.

“Let me get back to my life, huh?” Kate says, “Is that as bitter as it sounds?”

“A little bit.” Tommy admits, and fixes her with a deadly serious stare. “You do know Barton’s a tool, right?”

“Well, yeah.” Kate plays it blasé, not knowing how else to respond. “But he’s my tool.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow, shakes his head ever so slightly. “Your call, Kate.”

She rests her head on his shoulder, tangles her fingers with his. “He’s not so bad, you know.” She gives his hand a squeeze. “Besides, I collect ‘em.”

He laughs, and it feels like victory, more or less.

 

 

***

 

 

She ends up in the passenger seat, more often than not. Driving frustrates Tommy, she can tell, but not driving frustrates him more. When she drifts onto the rumble strip - at first accidentally, and then later on purpose, because she’s awful - she can see his whole body stiffen with the effort of not grabbing the wheel. It’s hilarious, it’s kind of adorable, it’s not something she should be paying attention to.

He drives with a casual boredom. It feels safe.

Part of her is still waiting for him to pull over and dash into the distance, leaving behind a trail of dust and a muttered ‘fuck it’.

 

 

***

 

 

There’s an awkward space hanging between their matching singles. Tommy is staring intently at the take-out menu in his hand, seemingly completely absorbed in his contemplation of pizza toppings. Kate hugs her knees to her chest and wonders how long he can draw this out. A while, apparently.

“Pepperoni,” he says, finally, and flicks the leaflet towards her. “I’m going for a run.”

“A normal run, or the other kind?” She asks. Tommy snorts by way of an answer.

He’s out the door before she can think of anything else to say, and she punches her pillow in frustration.

Maybe this was all just poor timing on their part. Golden rule of any road trip: have uninhibited car sex nearer the _end_ of the journey so as to minimise awkwardness during latter half of said journey. Or something.

She thinks about calling Clint, grins as she imagines his reaction. _Simple solution, Katie_ , he’d say, _More sex!_

 _That’s your answer to everything_ , she’d retort, and he’d huff in mock-offence and she’d smirk, and _Christ_ , it’s got to be a bad sign when she can have a conversation with him without him being here. They’re like an old married couple, or something, only he doesn’t like her joking about that. His face goes all tight and guilty, because he’s awful at worrying about the right things, and brilliant at beating himself up for the wrong ones.

He maybe is kind of a tool, but his heart's in the right place. A stupid expression - whose isn’t? - but apt.

She doesn’t call him, she calls for pizza and runs a bath. Soaks in the bubbles and fights feelings of melancholy, telling herself that the world is huge and amazing and full of possibilities.

She didn’t know she had doubts about Tommy coming back until she hears the door click.

She’s not being sentimental, or anything. She just can’t be fucked driving herself home with nought but a small arsenal of Whitesnake and energy drinks.

 

 

***

 

 

“There’s a shitty club downtown with my name on one of the seats,” Tommy says through a mouthful of pizza, and Kate makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. It’s a challenge and an invitation and - oh, _hell_ \- she’s too competitive to turn do anything other than lift her chin and glare right back at him.

Which is how - more or less - she ends up doing tequila shots in a place where the floor is so sticky it actually takes a concentrated effort to lift her feet. Salt and lime, the whole shebang, and she’s giggling and reeling and still not sure if this _asshole_ can even get drunk. He slams his glass down and smirks at her. There are some things she might never know.

She knows him but she doesn’t know him, she’s seen him naked but she’s never really seen him vulnerable, she loves him with a fierce possessiveness but she is five hundred percent certain that being his girlfriend would be the worst idea she’s ever had. Not that it’s on the table, as such. Not that it’s _not_ on the table.

Everything she does with him is technically a really terrible idea. Hence said underage drinking in the buttfuck of nowhere, not to mention the way she can’t quite help looking at him with an undercurrent of fondness that is definitely, totally unhelpful.

He’s beautiful, of course - she’s established this. He’s also breathtakingly idiotic and heartbreakingly stupid, but they’re here because of some overblown gesture on his part, however much he underplays it. It doesn’t make sense.

But that could always be the tequila speaking, and hey - it has some good things to say. She’s particularly interested in its in-depth opinions on why dancing is the best thing ever. Wow, ok, she just really wants to _dance_.

So she pulls Tommy onto the shitty dance floor and plays at being drunk. It’s a lot like being drunk, except you’re just pretending to be shameless. Playing at being drunk means you have an ulterior motive. Kate’s is Tommy. (Or at the very least, his thighs.)

For a while, her world becomes this tiny little bubble of Tommy and her, and she doesn’t feel like popping it much at all.

Which is nice, but ridiculous, when there’s a whole universe out there. That’s her problem, really. No one can hold her attention quite like the possibility of living.

Suddenly, she just feels like breathing the real world in.

“Let’s look at the stars,” she says, and Tommy shrugs in indifferent agreement, weaving his way out, Kate clinging to the back of his shirt.

It’s a short walk from the town to the absolute middle of nowhere; the kind of place where you can’t believe civilisation is a mere ten minutes away. His hands keeps brushing against the back of hers as they walk, until she grabs it forcefully and entwines their fingers almost aggressively. Tommy snorts.

The stars stretch out and out, into places she’ll never see. There are spaceships and alien civilisations and alternate universes and gods and she's just a girl with a bunch of pointy sticks. Is that something she ought to be proud of? She kind of is.

“Sagittarius,” Tommy says, carelessly, pointing at the sky. “Your favourite, I’m guessing.”

Kate squints upwards. Like hell does he know that. “Where?”

He lowers his head to her level, directs her finger. “There’s his bow, see? That’s his... I dunno, his head?”

“I am not convinced you are showing me an actual constellation, Shepherd.”

“No! It is, look-” he point again, indignant. “That’s his legs - _leg_ , whatever - and there’s the arrow.”

“You’re making this up.”

“I’m not! Constellations just look fuck all like they’re meant to, that’s all.”

“Alright then,” Kate says, “Show me another.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Tommy huffs, and she can feel his competitiveness coming into play, because he’s gripping her wrist with a determined fervour. “See that line of stars? That’s Scorpius.”

“Which end’s the head?”

“The end with the _pincers_ , you uncultured swine.”

“I can’t see any pincers!”

“I told you they look fuck all like they should,” Tommy sniffs, and then breaks into a grin. It stinks of victory. It’s _gross_.

Kate raises an eyebrow with all the disdain she can muster. "Into astrology now, are you?"

"You trying living with Billy for six months," he mutters, suddenly sheepish to be caught paying attention to anything. It’s kind of his party trick.

She sinks down onto the grass, laughing, and tugs at his hand. He slides down casually, arranging himself beside her cross-legged. He’s so _angular_ and would-be nonchalant, so frustratingly and carefully displayed.

But he’s almost relaxed, in his own sort of way, so she elbows him gently in the side.

“How is Billy?” She asks, the same thing she asked in the diner, hoping for a real answer.

“He’s fine,” Tommy says, completely impassively, so she elbows him again, harder.

“Is he?”

Tommy flicks his gaze towards her for a brief moment, his eyes defensive. That tells her two things. Firstly, that Billy probably isn’t quite fine, and secondly, that she missed that crucial moment when they really became brothers. The moment when Tommy started making excuses for him. The moment when Tommy started lying to people because Billy’s business is Billy’s business.

Do those people include Kate, now? She’s almost hurt.

She tries another question. “And Teddy?”

“Fine,” Tommy says, “he’s fine.”

This tells her two things, as well. Firstly, Teddy probably is fine, because that’s his superpower - being an inspiring human being. Or Kree/Skrull hybrid, whatever. Either way, he’s this amazingly resilient, gentle soul in a teenage quarterback casing. Secondly, she missed the part where Teddy become Tommy’s family, too.

She resists the urge to jump up and down and scream at him ‘ _I CALLED IT, I SO CALLED IT’_ , because she’s mature and composed and also her feet hurt from dancing.

Being happy for him seems like a good enough segue into kissing him, which leads to a lot of rolling around in the grass. It feels excellently like a movie, until she rolls over a stone and shrieks loud and shrill enough to kill any mood, ever.

“This is all your fault,” she grumbles, “What happened to the indoors, and even surfaces, and _beds_ -”

“If you want beds,” Tommy says, “that can be arranged.”

(She does.)

He runs them back to their room, and they try the bed thing. There’s just enough tequila still exerting its influence that she giggles uncontrollably for about ten minutes as Tommy trips over the dresser, swearing. Mr. Next Door starts banging angrily on the wall, and Kate stuffs her fist in her mouth as Tommy looks positively mutinous.

“Oh my god, _no,_ ” Kate says, and she tries to sound firm, because she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“What?” he says innocently, and Kate tells herself that she will not be a part of Tommy’s vendetta against some poor guy just trying to get some sleep. She will _not_.

She is sober enough to give enthusiastic consent, but drunk enough to end up being ludicrously loud about it. Whoops.

Oh, hell, you’re only young once, right? Maybe keeping your motel neighbours up is another teenage rite of passage.

“You just keep telling yourself that, Bishop,” he mutters. She must have said it out loud.

The best bit about the bed thing, she decides, is curling up straight afterwards into a sticky, sleepy pile of human.

 

 

***

 

 

Just as she’s drifting off, Tommy jerks awake with a strangled noise. She’s alert at once, anxious.

“Tommy?”

He whines with what sounds worryingly like pain.

“Nightmare?” She asks tentatively, reaching out for him. Images of prison cells and laboratories flash through her head, and he turns to face her with a grimace.

“ _What_? No.” Tommy looks at her like she’s stupid. “Foot cramp, _uggh._ ”

Kate starts laughing then, even as Tommy growls grumpily and swats at her.

Childhood trauma does not necessarily a nightmare-ridden mess make, and she ought to know that better than most.

“Wiggle it, it’ll help.”

“You fucking wiggle it,” he mutters, wrinkling his nose in discomfort.

Eventually, he settles down beside her again, his breathing evening out. She hopes he dreams of running, and she knows she’ll dream of arrows.

 

 

***

 

 

“Maybe this should be an annual thing,” Tommy says, as the roadsigns show smaller and smaller numbers next to their destination. “We should make this a summer tradition.”

Kate grins. “In the name of never growing up?”

“Something like that.”

“Why, Peter,” she trills, “that sounds wonderful!”

Tommy narrows his eyes at her as the reference goes soaring - so it would seem - right over his head. “Why do I get the feeling you’re turning me down by being clever?”

“It’s Peter Pan, dumbass,” Kate says, “and - I’m not. I’m actually not.”

“Good,” Tommy says, defiantly. “I’ll be there.”

Kate laughs, because he won’t. (Peter wasn’t either.)

And then, because prolonged staring out the window does bizarre things to your thought process, she says: “Oh, _God_ , promise me you won’t ever have sex with my daughter.”

Tommy shoots her a confused look. “There, er, something you want to tell me, Kate?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Kate swats him in the arm. “My _hypothetical_ future daughter. She’s officially off limits.”

“No promises,” Tommy says, mock-seriously, “What if she’s like you?”

She groans and lets her forehead fall on the dash.

Another childhood classic ruined, then.

 

 

***

 

 

They pick Billy up outside his school, where he stands shifting from foot to foot. He blinks at the car.

“You’re _early_ \- oh, hey, Kate.”

She smiles; it’s only a little bit awkward. She feels like she’s intruding on something, and Billy looks to feel the same.

“I’m not, I’m on time!” Tommy says, indignant. “Or, er - something about wizards that you always say?” Kate has a strange feeling he could probably quote it verbatim if he wasn’t so determined to be an asshole.

Billy’s mouth twitches a little bit at the corner as he opens the door. “Right.” He slides in, looking sort of small and nervous.

“So, where to?” Tommy asks her, far too politely.

“Clint’s.” Kate tries not to sigh. “He’s got my baby.”

“Oh yeah? You guys still sharing?” Billy leans over the back of her seat.

“No.” She says firmly, and he laughs, then leans a little closer and stage-whispers.

“Tommy’s car thing is weird, right?”

“He’s just compensating,” she says, and grins as Tommy glares at her and Billy makes a quiet little “oh” of dawning comprehension.

Almost like old times.

Billy is fiddling with the loose threads of his sleeves, and it hits her how fucking sick she is of seeing him in civvies. Tommy may be driving, but at least he hates it. Billy could get where he wanted even quicker, and there he is, awkwardly perched on the backseat of a car that can’t quite hit ninety. God knows she loves him, but running with the big guns isn’t hard when they’re like this.

“Where’ve you guys been?” Billy asks in a small, sad voice, and the barely hidden longing in his question takes the fight right out of her. She wants to jump in the backseat and squeeze the sadness out of him and his oversized hoodie. If only it worked like that.

Instead, she shoots him a warm smile. “I’ve been giving Tommy the road trip experience.”

Billy grins, and she’s sure she sees relief in his face. Maybe he does miss the costume.

“Motels?”

“Of _course_.”

They both laugh, and Tommy wrinkles his nose. What at is anyone’s guess.

For the rest of the journey, she listens to them bicker with a distant fondness, sunglasses back on. Time to ease herself out of the little bubble they’ve created for themselves. (Bubbles pop eventually, she’d rather do it herself.)

Clint’s apartment block looms round the corner, and she takes a deep breath.

She swings her bag over her shoulder as she opens the car door, tries for casual. She can’t quite pull it off. Billy is biting his lip like he’s trying desperately not to smile - she suspects it’s something to do with her shorts and the state of Tommy’s neck.

“Don’t be a stranger.” Tommy says, and smiles slightly. She doesn’t doubt that he means it, but she knows it won’t happen. There’s no point in saying that, though. Why ruin it?

She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and then dashes to the front door before she does something ridiculous like get back in the car and demand they go somewhere else, and never come back.

“You need to stop being uselessly in love with her.” She hears Billy say. “It’s unproductive.”

“Says you,” Tommy huffs. “Besides, I’m not.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest- _ow_! You ass-”

She shuts the door and grins, dashing up the stairs to let herself into Clint’s apartment. She hopes he’s out.

(He’s not.)

Clint makes this irritatingly smug little noise, which she decides is best left unacknowledged.

“Hey,” she says, throwing her bag down. “I’m back.”

“So, it was a sex thing, huh?” Clint says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Shut up,” she mutters, not meeting his eyes.

“Always is, kiddo,” he says, nodding in a way he probably thinks looks wise and mature. “Always is.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few things:
> 
> 1\. I'm sorry they don't actually go anywhere specific. That is one part research laziness, and one part that it just doesn't matter.
> 
> 2\. I'm sorry Tommy doesn't actually give us anything to go on about where the hell he's been. I love him as a frustrating enigma. (I guess we'll see in a couple of weeks what canon has to say about that.)
> 
> 3\. I hope Kate doesn't seem too hard on Billy. She's just too caught up in the rush of being a superhero, she's not being callous.
> 
> 4\. I hope I don't seem too flippant about Kate's past in the foot cramp scene. I don't mean to belittle it, just that I don't think she lets it define her?
> 
> 5\. Consider this an open invitation to pester me for a beta anytime <3 I am too shy to approach people so I am catering to those with the same problem!


End file.
